


voices scream (nothin' seen)

by Eddaic



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Drama, Ginzura if you squint, Joui War, M/M, Pre Joui War, Violence, am I the the last standing takazura fan? who the hell knows, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eddaic/pseuds/Eddaic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just how it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	voices scream (nothin' seen)

Warnings for mature themes and violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gintama.

The second last fragment was inspired by [this](http://kvei.tumblr.com/post/127496421021/iwazu-heres-your-daily-dose-of-takazura) lovely art by kvei.

***

"Do not mistake this myth for love – that is a different kind of burning."

– Sandra Cisneros, 'Valparaiso'

**voices scream (nothin' seen) **

Katsura doesn't know if he is fascinated by the name _Shinsuke_ , or by the dark, slight boy who belongs to it. The first time he hears the name (hurled at him like a sharp weapon), he wants to lap it up, taste it on his tongue. He almost wishes it were his. Almost. If it were his, it would have been strange to think so highly of it.  
  
_Shin_. A gentle but firm wind, cutting across fields of wheat like a scythe. _Su_. Strength. The upward swing of a sword, about to rip away a soul. _Ke_. Elegance. Swaying chimes that sound like silver, the drape of a woman's kimono, the slant of leaf-green eyes offset by dark lashes.  
  
"Katsura," he blurts, seeing the annoyed expression on the boy's face and remembering his manners. "Kotarou," he adds as an afterthought. _Does this make us friends_? he thinks with tentative excitement. He never really had a friend before, so he's not sure what friends are supposed to do with each other; he supposes they will make onigiri together, and climb trees, and _talk_. Katsura has not talked with someone in a long time. Not really. The only times the boys at the school talk to him are when they are jeering at his moth-eaten haori and telling him he smells.  
  
The boy – Shinsuke – scoffs, and then curls his lip in what may or may not be a smile. "Wig," he says, and leans back against the temple pillar. He closes his eyes, as if Katsura is not worth the effort to keep them open. "What a stupid name."

***  
  
Shinsuke always beats the boys at their school, and always manages to get away with nary a scratch; he achieves more with a stick than they do with shinai. So Katsura is bewildered when Shinsuke, looking his usual mixture between angry and bored, sometimes trundles into class with a bruised cheek or a split lip. These are conspicuous injuries, meant to be seen – marks of the other person's power. One afternoon, while they are both on cleaning duty, Katsura asks him about it as casually as he can.  
  
"Father hits hard," Shinsuke replies. "He doesn't like it when I fight with those rich brats." He glances at Katsura with a sneer. "Yours never seems to hit you. Must be nice."  
  
"No," says Katsura, "he's dead." He _had_ cuffed Katsura a few times, but what of it? When he was not angry, he was the kindest person in the world. He would carry Katsura on his back and buy him sweets and sometimes, if Katsura pleaded hard enough, told him bedtime stories in a smooth, lacquered voice like the handle of an ornamental sword. And he always, always apologised, sometimes with tears in his eyes, when he drew blood from Katsura's flesh.  
  
Shinsuke's expression does not change. He dips the dirty grey rag in his hand into the bucket of water by his side.  
  
"But," Katsura continues, looking up at the sky through the window, "I wouldn't mind if he did. I wouldn't mind if all he did was hit me, if I could spend a while with him. Mother, too. I'd say the same for Grandmother, but she'd never hit me, not on her life."  
  
"Shut up," snaps Shinsuke, turning away. "God, you're so annoying. Go clean the floor from that corner over there."  
  
***

Wada Sensei is a bumbling fool of a man with a belly that jiggles when he walks and a mouthful of ageing piano keys for teeth. He speaks in a loud, rumbling voice and constantly thwacks his ruler against his palm as he waddles up and down in front of the chalkboard. For his class, Katsura always has all the right answers, never speaks unless asked to, and makes an extra effort to keep the classroom clean.  
  
"Why do you suck up to him?" Shinsuke asks one day, as they dip their feet in the cool stream about a mile away from the school. Katsura doesn't really know why Shinsuke strolls down the stream with him once a week; Katsura just enjoys the babble of the water (it had always made him feel less alone, less giddy and _lost_ ), but Shinsuke has never expressed fondness for such things. He simply never seems to have _needed_ to not feel alone, and Katsura cannot help but be drawn to such strange power. "It would make Father angry," Shinsuke had said when Katsura asked why he accompanied him. "That makes me happy."

"Do you _like_ that idiot? Also, the way he looks at you is gross," says Shinsuke, wrinkling his nose in disgust.  
  
Katsura rubs out the dirt from between his toes. "I hate him." Wada Sensei may be the last person Katsura would help out of a burning building, but he shares his onigiri with him after class; so Katsura, happily, has two meals in a day instead of one.  
  
Shinsuke looks at him oddly. "You're a liar."  
  
"So what?"

***  
  
"How come you never challenge me?"  
  
"Why? Do you want me to beat you up?"  
  
"You couldn't do it, anyway," Katsura replies. He is not trying to be rancorous; he knows his footwork is better than Shinsuke's. He cocks his head to one side. "Do you want to beat me up?" It is an honest question, spoken without bitterness or sarcasm. A part of him is not inclined to senseless tussles (even though he is often tossed in the middle of them, thanks to the boys who make a great show of holding their noses when they sit next to him) but another part wants to engage in a fight, to have all of Shinsuke's heated focus trained on him. He has a niggling suspicion that his desire is not entirely appropriate, but brushes the thought aside as he would a tiresome fly.   
  
The dark-haired boy gazes at him for a long time. "No."

***  
  
Shinsuke has never said he liked Katsura, but, then again, he has never said he liked anyone.  
  
Even though Katsura is feeling... _something_ (bitter, frustrated, envious of the thoughts that greedily occupy the bulk of Shinsuke's attention), he flushes hot when Shinsuke presents him with a peach behind the dojo, in front of a group of boys Katsura has small affection for. They gasp, then guffaw, hands on their bellies. Some pucker their lips and make kissing noises; others just pretend to throw up. Katsura dutifully ignores them; the last time he talked back to them he got a fist to the eye and a knee to the groin. He wonders if this is all some elaborate attempt at making him look like a fool.  
  
Katsura used to love peaches, especially when they were just short of ripening; he enjoyed watching the soft sunset spread across the fuzzy skin of the fruit. His rail-thin, wrinkled grandmother would peel them for him and he'd watch her, kneeling at her feet, blissfully, _obliviously_ content with the world. Then a third grave was rammed into the dirt beside his parents' – the _finality_ of those stones, pointing towards heaven like an accusation, was staggering – and suddenly peaches tasted like soggy paper and had the look of disease, pus and blood lurking just beneath the skin.  
  
"What am I to do with it?" Katsura asks.  
  
"Eat it."  
  
"I don't like peaches."  
  
"Don't eat it, then. Kick it around, or take another and juggle with them." He tosses it towards Katsura, who catches it with both hands and looks at it dumbly. It is round and a little squishy, somewhat overripe. Over the hoots of the other boys, Shinsuke laughs, the corners of his eyes fanning into crinkles, and Katsura is unsure whether that laugh is mocking or genuine. His flush grows hotter, creeps to the tips of his ears; he wants to shrink right into the dirt.  
  
He turns and dashes back to the dojo and, as he enters, barrels into Shouyou Sensei, who elicits a surprised, "Oh!" and steadies him by the shoulders. "Kotarou-kun! You mustn’t run indoors; we just cleaned the floor. Why, what's wrong?" he says, concern lacing his voice, as Katsura buries his nose in Shouyou Sensei's hakama and begins to howl.  
  
Shouyou Sensei shushes him, stroking his hair with his long, gentle fingers. His soft hakama smells of soap and powder; it is a familiar, comforting sensation. Before Katsura can begin to feel better, a new voice pipes up from somewhere behind Shouyou Sensei: "He's a crybaby. Sensei, you shouldn't be so nice to crybabies. He'll come to you for every little thing. Ah, he's so annoying; can't you make him stop?"  
  
" _Gintoki_ ," says Shouyou Sensei, aghast.  
  
Katsura balls his fists into his sensei's clothes and sobs harder.  
  
***  
  
"There are no samurai here," says Shinsuke, when Katsura helps him up from the ground. "Only cowards whose parents know how to spend money." Shinsuke's knees and chin are flecked with red, and his kosode is ripped at the front. It is a common enough sight; Katsura expects it once a fortnight, at least.  
  
"They might yet grow into noble men," Katsura returns. He has already witnessed death, in three fell swoops, and death is the only thing, he believes, that really kills hope.  
  
Shinsuke barks a bitter laugh. "You're always such a sentimental idiot. When will you realise that this world is not comprised merely of brothers and well-wishers?" He wipes his chin with his thumb, brings his hand to Katsura's face, and smears crimson over his cheekbone. "Even with war-paint," says Shinsuke softly, a faint, mocking light in his eyes, "you don't look a warrior. Give up the sword, Katsura. It does not become you."  
  
"Are you concerned for me?" asks Katsura. It is one of the few times he finds Shinsuke's chiding more patronising than flattering. "I am not afraid of battlefields or corpses."  
  
"Only fools are unafraid, Katsura."  
  
***  
  
Shinsuke crouches on top of the jagged rock and looks for all the world like one of the Western gargoyles that Shouyou Sensei once showed them pictures of. Katsura imagines Shinsuke squatting on one of the parapets of Notre Dame, the moonlight draping him in a soft silver sheen.  
  
"Maybe we shouldn't do this," Katsura mumbles timidly.  
  
" _Hah_?" says Shinsuke, whipping around and looking as if Katsura just suggested they ought to throw themselves down the waterfall, too.  
  
Katsura drops his gaze and toes a stone off the edge of the precipice. It tumbles to the churning pool below; any sound it makes is lost against the roar of the water. "It - it means something to him," he says, feeling his cheeks grow hot. Ikeda may have been a bully, a fool, and a lot of other things Katsura did not consider polite to name, but throwing his dead sister's doll down a waterfall seemed a bit much for revenge.  
  
"He beat you up," says Shinsuke, brows knitting together in anger. "Come on, it's just a stupid doll. It's cotton stuffed in cloth. Get over it."  
  
Katsura wipes his nose and keeps staring at the ground. He hates to disagree with Shinsuke when the boy clings to his vengeance. "I – I don't know if it will stop with this – "  
  
"He broke your wrist, didn't he?"  
  
Katsura had never seen Shouyou Sensei so angry, eyes flashing, lips turned grimly downwards; there had been no warmth or openness in his gestures. He nods mutely.  
  
"Then come here."  
  
Katsura clambers up the rock and Shinsuke hands him the doll. It is one of the ugliest things Katsura has ever seen. The stuffing is leaking out of the stitches, and there is a single blue button for an eye; the mouth is just a wobbly red line, done in paint. The doll is wrapped in a hideous orange kimono, held with an obi that might once have been yellow but is now a murky brown. He _hates_ it.  
  
"Are you going to throw it or not?"  
  
There is a challenge lacing Shinsuke's voice: _can you do it?_  
  
Katsura looks at him with what he hopes is steel in his eyes. On the one hand, he doesn't care for Shinsuke's opinions of him; and on the other, he desperately wants to hear approval in that jaded voice. He doesn't know if this is going to allow him to soothe the cuts and bruises that seem to be perpetual residents on Shinsuke's elbows, or will get a single 'thank you' out of him. What he does know is that Shinsuke is a strange, dark abyss, and he wants, against his better judgement, to tumble in.  
  
Without breaking Shinsuke's gaze, he flings the doll towards the waterfall. It rises in a high arc in the air, seems to be suspended in time for a couple of moments, and then tumbles towards the churning water below. "I'll do whatever you tell me to," he says.  
  
There is surprise in Shinsuke's face, but it passes swiftly. He sniffs, eyes Katsura up and down, and then leaves without a word.  
  
***  
  
When snow drifts from the cloudless greyish sky, Katsura begins to howl. He curls in on himself, makes a sound closer to the wail of a wounded animal than a human, and rocks back and forth on his heels. His grandmother had told him to not be ashamed of crying, but he cannot help but vaguely predict the humiliation that will colour his cheeks later on, when his grief is not so raw.  
  
The sleeves of Shouyou Sensei's dark haori fold over him like the wings of some great mythical creature and obscure the grave festooned with withered flowers. Katsura leans heavily against his shoulder, heaving and hiccuping. His sensei's clothes smell of tea and steel. At length he chokes on his own sobs and releases a string of coughs, and feels Shouyou Sensei's hand gently pat his back. Katsura squeezes his eyes shut and moans, "Shouyou Sensei. _Shouyou Sensei_ ," as if he expects this man can bring the dead back to life.  
  
Nonetheless, he is stung when his sensei does nothing of the sort, only lifts him into his arms and carries him back to the temple, the sound of his footfall almost ear-splitting against the silence of winter. Shouyou Sensei lays him gently on a futon, eases dirt and dried tears off his face with a damp handkerchief, and smooths back his hair. He gives his old soft smile, and _oh_ , it's so kind it's almost cruel. "Rest now."  
  
Katsura does.  
  
***  
  
"I want to fade," says Katsura. It is one of _those_ conversations, the ones that Gintoki avoids at all cost but Shinsuke almost always seems up for. They lying are in the field in which Shouyou Sensei sometimes holds his lessons. A cold wind blows by and plucks a few tufts from the dandelions. Above them the sky is painted with blood and fire. "I like the idea of doing something important and no one knowing my name for it. It's kind of thrilling."  
  
Shinsuke closes his eyes and crosses an ankle over his knee. He speaks in a voice that had grown smooth and mature over the past year. The first time Katsura heard it ("Get off your ass and spar with me, Wighead.") from behind him, he jumped and swore, not recognising it. Even now it perplexes him; it seems too far-reaching to fit such a youthful face, too deep to spring from such a slender chest. "I don't really care for doing anything important at all. Fading, fame – it's all the same to me."  
  
"You don't change, Shinsuke."  
  
"Hah?" says Shinsuke, and gives a rascally grin that makes Katsura look away and concentrate fiercely on a dandelion. "It's nice having friends who don't change, I'd say."

***  
  
"I can do it myself."  
  
"Shut it."  
  
"It's not that bad."  
  
"Zura, you bastard, if you don't let me stitch it, I'll shove my sandal right in that flapping mouth of yours."  
  
"It's not Zura, it's Katsura." Nonetheless, Katsura relents with a huff and offers his arm to Shinsuke, who takes it and begins to take care of the laceration on his forearm. Despite his words, he is surprisingly gentle, and makes far better work of it than Katsura's one-handed attempt would have. The orange light from the braziers brushes across Shinsuke's face, softens the line of his mouth. His fingers work carefully, deft and sure. Katsura is reminded of the easy, fluid way Shinsuke fights on the battlefield, as if he was born with a katana in his hand.  
  
Shinsuke shifts closer on his knees so he can stitch the wound better, and Katsura gets a whiff of him, of his bloodied clothes and matted, oil-iridescent hair. "You stink," Katsura says, and feels pleased with himself, because he means it. Shinsuke jabs the needle into his arm without changing his expression.  
  
" _Ai_."  
  
"Suck it," says Shinsuke tonelessly, eyes still trained on Katsura's arm. "You big baby."  
  
Later, they lie on the damp grass beside a fire, away from the rest of the troops. Shinsuke watches the stars and Katsura watches Shinsuke smoke an old kiseru, which he was given by one of the prostitutes they visited last month. _I bet she was awful_ , he thinks moodily. _She probably gave it to him because she wasn't really good at what she's supposed to do._ The pettiness of his thoughts surprises him, and he sighs, silently reprimanding himself.   
  
"She must have been filthy rich to give away that thing," Katsura puts in, gazing at the thin ribbon of blue-grey smoke slowly curl and dissipate into the air. His eyes fall to the gleaming metal stem resting on Shinsuke's chapped lower lip. Shinsuke's mouth purses, closes around the piece to take a long drag, and Katsura forces himself to look away.  
  
When Shinsuke doesn't reply, Katsura says in a strained voice, "You've always had expensive taste."  
  
"I have class, unlike you."  
  
"I see no class in the way you wear your yukata. Look at you, your chest is showing."  
  
" _Oh, my chest is showing_ ," Shinsuke mocks in a high-pitched voice, raising his eyebrows. "I'm going to faint from embarrassment! Someone catch me!"  
  
"All right, don't overdo it," grumbles Katsura, and turns his head towards the net of stars that hang in the sky. "When did you pick up smoking, anyway? I can't stand the smell."  
  
"Months ago."  
  
" _Hah_? How come I didn't notice?"  
  
"Because you're a bumbling buffoon who wouldn't recognise the back of his own hand if his life depended on it."  
  
Katsura moves to punch Shinsuke, and then groans when a lance of pain shoots through his arm. He curls up, trying not to shake.  
  
"Serves you right," grunts Shinsuke, but his face is grim with concern. He turns over and briefly brushes his hand against Katsura's elbow. His fingers are warm and callused. Katsura thinks it would perhaps be appropriate to flinch away, but he stays still, acting as if nothing, nothing is out of the ordinary. He sits up, careful not to move his arm too much, and forces his gaze to the twisting fire.  
  
He feels a finger on his chin, and his face is turned towards Shinsuke, Shinsuke, _Shinsuke_.  
  
A long, brittle hand threads through Katsura's hair and makes a fist (just a little pain, more of a dull throb than a sting). Shinsuke easily draws him closer, his breath hot and damp on Katsura's cheek. Their mouths meet, briefly. It is a chaste little kiss, as if they are two schoolboys huddling in the dirt behind the temple school thickets.  
  
They part, and it is a moment or two before Shinsuke opens hazy eyes, glinting in the firelight.  
  
"Shinsuke...you..."  
  
Shinsuke doesn't wait for him to finish his sentence; he has plenty of virtues, Katsura knows – patience is not one of them. He brings their lips together again, harder this time, slower. They kiss like they've been starving, unrefined and open-mouthed. Katsura finds himself reeling, stumbling closer to the abyss. As if from a distance, he hears a rough moan, cut short. The hand of his good arm gropes at Shinsuke's shoulder, clutches desperately at the fabric. Shinsuke tastes of smoke and sake, and beneath that, of storms and dark waves and blistering heat.  
  
They break away, panting. Katsura asks, "Since when...?"  
  
Shinsuke shakes his head, as if that will help him find the words he is looking for. He looks young, so young, and lost, like the boy Katsura picked up at the temple. When he remains silent for a long time, Katsura (head spinning, still dizzy) fumbles for his sweaty hand and squeezes it. "It's all right," he says, a grin splitting his face. "It's all right."  
  
***  
  
"A little bird told me you and Shinsuke are an item."  
  
Katsura does not look up from the map he is studying. "Birds shouldn't be talking in the first place."  
  
Gintoki sidles up to him, slings an arm over his shoulder, and pinches his chin between two fingers with his other hand. "Bet you're real happy about it, huh?" he says with a smug, teasing grin. "Must be great to finally have someone who'll actually do you, since those women at the red light districts think you some girly little – "  
  
Katsura cheerfully slams his fist into Gintoki's jaw.  
  
***  
  
They shouldn't be wasting precious time on sweet caresses and chaste cuddles, but Katsura is stupidly happy with just that, and Shinsuke doesn't push for more.  
  
On occasion they do shed their clothes. The first time it happens, they don't take long to get used to the awkward twisting limbs and prodding questions of 'can I?' and 'do you like that?' and 'do you want to?' Shinsuke constantly has to spit out hair while kissing Katsura's neck, and Katsura honestly is less thrilled with the sensation than he thought he would be. He had always imagined kisses on the neck to be incredibly romantic and turning on, but it is just vaguely pleasant and mostly sloppy and somewhat gross. Shinsuke seems to enjoy it more than he does.  
  
"If you leave marks, I'm going to be very unforgiving," Katsura warns.  
  
"I don't really know how it works," mumbles Shinsuke, "but I'll try not to."  
  
They both agree that actual _fucking_ is out of the question, at least for the present and near future, what with the dirt and grime and blood that is everywhere, including places they never would have thought could get so filthy. Neither want to pick up any of the diseases that the soldiers talk about in scandalised voices. "I heard it falls off," whispers Katsura, when they talk about it.  
  
Shinsuke shudders. "I don't wanna hear it."  
  
The first time Katsura makes any kind of noise is when Shinsuke dips his head low and takes him into his mouth. It's a little unsure, obviously inexperienced, but still hot and wet and tight, and Katsura breathes heavily, winding his fingers into Shinsuke's silky hair. Shinsuke bobs his head, the moonlight painting half his face in soft silver, and it really should not be legal to look that beautiful while engaging in such a filthy act. Then a tongue swipes across the slit and Katsura gasps and bucks his hips, involuntarily. Shinsuke makes a choking sound and slides off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Hey, careful."  
  
"Sorry," says Katsura breathlessly. "You're awfully good at this for a first timer."  
  
"Ho?" teases Shinsuke, tilting his head rakishly to one side. Katsura kind of wants to kiss his infuriating little smirk, so he does, long and slow. When they part, Shinsuke says in a low drawl, "Are you trying to say that I drop to my knees for every pretty boy who passes my way?"  
  
"No!" says Katsura, in what is more of a yelp than he would like to admit. "No, I – you know what I meant!"  
  
Shinsuke, the bastard, _cackles_ , before slipping his mouth over Katsura's shaft again.

"You...absolute..."  
  
Shinsuke hums agreeably around him before swallowing, and Katsura's mind is wiped clean of all thought.  
  
At the break of day Katsura wakes to find Shinsuke curled around him, an arm flung over his waist. He mumbles, still groggy with sleep, "Why you holding me so tight? Let go."  
  
Shinsuke plants a warm kiss on his shoulder and says, "You're afraid of the dark."  
  
***  
  
It's like a twisted parody of a play. Katsura doesn't feel like any of this is real. Shouyou Sensei is fine; he's _fine_. Katsura will wake up, and Gintoki will annoy him and Shinsuke will play with his hair and they will eat shitty food and sing worse songs and wash their filthy clothes with water and no soap. They will charge into the battlefield and fight and fight and fight for Sensei for Japanforhonourfor _bushido._  
  
It is just a matter of time.  
  
***  
  
He wants to say _Shinsuke_ , but air cannot get past his choked windpipe. His hands scrabble desperately, uselessly, at the fingers squeezing his throat. Shinsuke's eye is looking right through him, fixed on some far elsewhere that is impossible to reach. It is the wild determination that burns in Shinsuke's gaze that frightens Katsura more than the prospect of dying here. Nevertheless, he is not thrilled at the dark spots obstructing his vision or the fog growing thicker in his brain.  
  
Perhaps saying, "Shouyou Sensei would have wanted us to keep moving," to Shinsuke had been a mistake.

He opens his mouth to say something – maybe protest; he isn't sure – but then remembers he can't. Even amid the haze of pain and stupor, he pities Shinsuke (and God, there was always too much pity in him, too much sympathy, too much kindness too much callowness too much of everything he should have known better than being). After all, Shinsuke had never fought to expel the Amanto, like Katsura did - he only ever fought for Sensei. 

Then there is a flash of white and suddenly Katsura is on the ground, coughing and gasping. Through the vague, tinny ringing in his ears he hears Gintoki's voice, low and gruff.  
  
"Fight me if you want," he is saying, "but if you lay a hand on Zura again..." He leaves the threat to their imaginations.  
  
Shinsuke's laugh is harsh, discordant, like the clang of metal in an empty room. "I don't want to hear that from you," he spits. "You fucking _bastard_. First you murder our own teacher, then you talk of _protecting_ someone. You're such a fucking _hypocrite_ , Sakata. I never once imagined that I slept and fought beside a fucking monster like you."  
  
"Don't," wheezes Katsura; and now he is angry, fire and steel racing through his veins. "Don't call him that, Shinsuke. You know...you _know_ it wasn't his fault."

"You naive little idiot," hisses Shinsuke, eye flashing. "How can you – "

A dry chuckle interrupts him. "Maa, Zura," says Gintoki, and his tone is laced with dark amusement. He has not torn his glare from Shinsuke's face. "They call me Shiroyasha for a reason, yes?"  
  
***  
  
When Shinsuke leaves without a word, Katsura does not cry. He knows he should be upset, angry, _furious_ –  but the truth is he doesn't feel much of anything. Perhaps his reservoir of tears dried up some time during the war.  
  
He kisses a fitfully sleeping Gintoki on the forehead, sends a prayer to whichever god is up there, and slips through the trees onto the road.  
  
He cannot forget. But he wants to.  
  
***  
  
"A costume," says Katsura. He could use the excuse that he is too lazy to construct a proper explanation. The truth is that he doesn't want to bother looking as if he still gives two shits about this bastard, who just ruined a perfectly good opportunity for Katsura's Joui faction. That government official had been a highly important (if insufferable) old fellow, and could have spouted some valuable information. Too bad he was frightened off.  
  
"Look at you. A painted whore," replies the other man, with a curl of his lip.  
  
"Nothing wrong with being a whore," Katsura says in a too-pleasant voice, and smiles in a way that either a madman or a fool would call friendly. He doesn't try to get up from his (admittedly vulnerable) position, backside on the floor and legs splayed. Shinsu – no, _Takasugi_ , Katsura vehemently reminds himself, is nothing like the sombre Kiheitai captain he fought alongside in the Joui War.  
  
Takasugi crouches down over Katsura, dropping one hand on the floor by his hip. The other – elegant and brittle – brings a kiseru to his mouth.  
  
"Flashy, Takasugi," says Katsura, eyeing the elaborate yukata that is probably worth more than what he himself earns in two months. "Do you want to get caught? I could spot you from five miles away."  
  
Takasugi's expression does not shift. He languidly blows a stream of smoke, just by Katsura's ear. Katsura makes a valiant effort to not lean away from it. "I don't want to hear that from a man whose face is caked with makeup."  
  
"This isn't normal for me."  
  
Takasugi's voice is soft, velvety, but cold like the skin of a dead man. "You never were normal, anyway, Zura."  
  
Fury surges through Katsura's chest, and he raises himself higher, so he can feel Takasugi's breath on his skin (sparring at Shouka Sonjuku, sticky watermelon juice drying on their chins in summer, Shouyou Sensei's head on a cheap bloodied cloth). "Don't call me that," he spits. " _Don't you fucking call me that._ " His fist swings up to meet Takasugi's jaw, but a hand easily catches his wrist, as if his gesture was expected.  
  
"Temper, Zura," says Takasugi soothingly, straddling him. Katsura refuses to squirm under his weight, though the floor is hard and painful beneath his back. He stays still and scowls, and glares, and hates.  
  
Takasugi raises one hand, slowly, and runs his thumb across Katsura's lower lip, onto his cheek. "What happened to your sentimental, peacemaking ways?"  
  
Katsura imagines what he looks like, hair and clothes dishevelled, rouge smeared around his mouth; he fights a flush lurking beneath his skin and tries not to think about why it is there.  
  
Takasugi takes another long drag, his thin chest rising. Suddenly he drops his kiseru (the _clatter_ is maddeningly loud against the bone-dry silence of the room) and grips Katsura's face in his sword-callused hands. His eye narrows, and Katsura is unsure whether it gleams with desire or madness. The next second Katsura feels a searing pain slice through his thigh, and he gasps – only to receive a lungful of smoke and an open mouth covering his own.  
  
Katsura shoves him away, disgust worming its way through his flesh and settling into his bones. The hacking lasts too long for him to retain any shred of dignity. " _Get the fuck away_ ," he hisses at length, throat raw. He is vaguely aware of how mad he must look, wild eyes and flared nostrils, but cannot bring himself to care. "How fucking _dare_ you." Blood drips hot and slick down his thigh and spreads across the floor.  
  
Outside the room, sounds of commotion burst through the air. Takasugi stands before him, kiseru in hand, that infuriating smirk on his face. "You're so beautiful when you're angry, Zura," he says at last. Katsura is about to scream when Takasugi continues, "Ah, but I don't see why you're angry. You are just like me."  
  
Katsura knows this is just a mind game. He _knows_. "Don't compare us – !"  
  
"You have a beast in you, too, Zura."  
  
"Don't you _dare_ use that _name_ – "  
  
"Oh, I know. Most days, it is silent, because you strap a muzzle on it, tie it down with chains. And you can go around pretending you are another Yoshida Shouyou, with your hair and your clothes and your smile and your _bushido_. But, I know, Zura – when your beast rips free, my God, how it shrieks."  
  
" _Get out_!" yells Katsura, clutching his hair with one hand and screwing his eyes shut. " _Get the fuck out_!"  
  
Takasugi takes another drag, releases another ribbon of smoke. He shifts his weight, crosses his ankles, and speaks as if he is describing the weather. "We are not two sides of the same coin, Zura. That would imply we are opposites of a sort, facing different directions. No, we are but two shades of the same colour. You think your terrorist activities are any better than mine? You think you uphold some kind of moral code?"  
  
" _Shut up_!"  
  
"Na, Zura," says Takasugi with a smile. "You're adorable." He half-turns towards the door. "I'll see you again."  
  
Katsura doesn't want to think about how that sounds like a promise.  
  
***  
  
He never imagined his life could feel this domestic.  
  
Gintoki lounges on the sofa, stares at the static-ridden TV screen, and makes a comment about how he'd let Ketsuno Ana step on his face. From the kitchen comes the faint whistle of the kettle, and then the babble of pouring water; Shinpachi will be serving tea. On the floor, Kagura is curled up against Sadaharu – both of them are snoring. It is blissfully mundane, something right out of a boring novel with a disappointing beginning and a worse ending.  
  
Katsura knows it will not last. There may be occasions when intrepid shouts of 'We will always be Yorozuya' rise to the sky; but there had been similar sentiments, expressed in shrieked laughter or weary rasps, when there had been three of them, a hundred years ago (in another world, another dimension), and again when there had been four, not as long ago but still lingering in some elsewhere. And then they had scattered like leaves in the wind. From knowing the stench of each other's bodies as they slept with mud for beds, the weight of their footfall, the tones of grief and joy in their eyes...from defending each other's lives, they did not even know if any one of them was dead. 

Some years down the line, Kagura will tear through the universe with her father, Shinpachi will marry some nice girl and move out of town, and Katsura and Gintoki will be alone again. Even without the looming future, Katsura's own life is a whirlwind of guerrilla warfare and narrow escapes from the police.  
  
But for now, for _now_ , in this little under-furnished flat, he can ignore the truth and pretend that this will be his forever.  
  
He is about to get up and help Shinpachi with the tea when Gintoki says, "Takasugi almost sliced me to ribbons the other day."  
  
And, just like that, the comfortable bubble of domesticity bursts, and memories of the battlefield come rushing back, almost suffocating Katsura under their weight. He goes rigid, and hides his fists in the sleeves of his yukata. Why did Gintoki have to mention _him_? Why did he have to ruin a perfectly good, peaceful afternoon, rare as those are?  
  
"Told me how he'd met you a few times, too," continues Gintoki, picking his nose with his pinky.  
  
"What else did he say?" says Katsura in a tight voice.  
  
"Nothing." There is a long silence. "Say, Zura, do you ever think about him?" he asks. There is suspicion and concern lacing his tone.  
  
Katsura wants to punch him. _Any time I am alone. Any bloody time I have nothing to occupy my mind. Every night, every morning. In my dreams in my nightmares in the worlds between._  
  
He plasters on his brightest smile. "No."

_-finis-_

**Author's Note:**

> Have a good day. :)


End file.
